


Lovely As You Are--Alternate Ending for Azalea

by RainbowFighterPrincess (PrincessSmuttButt)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Ending, Ben Howard - Freeform, Corgis, I'm Sorry, M/M, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:30:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSmuttButt/pseuds/RainbowFighterPrincess
Summary: A short, alternate ending (not actually canon, much happier) to the original story, "Lovely As You Are". 
Dedicated to one of my readers, Azalea. 
I hope you enjoy it, Zale (:





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! 
> 
> so this ending takes place right after chapter 22 of the original 
> 
> hope you like it, though it's not my best. pretty rushed. but, nevertheless, i do hope you enjoy it.

**Alternate Ending**

Braginsky didn’t play games this time. Didn’t circle defensively around the ring, didn’t take the extra time to size Alfred up. It was clear from the cruelty in his eyes that he wanted to end it quickly and painfully. From the moment the first round began, Braginsky stomped forward and began to throw punches. But Alfred and Coach had predicted as much.

“He’s not going to try to mess with your mind this time. He’s going to go in for the kill straight away. So you have to be ready, champ.”

Alfred stayed on his toes. He brought up his hands to cage his face and, with his flexed arms, took the first few punches straight to his arms. They had the force of tidal wives. When Braginsky threw a hook, Alfred ducked underneath it.

He was faster and stronger than he’d been before.

As he ducked, he stepped forward and threw a shovel into Braginsky’s side, quick and hard and painfully accurate. Even if Braginsky didn’t make a sound, he saw the slightest cringe in him. As soon as his punch hit, Alfred jumped out of Braginsky’s punching range and brought his hands back up. A good, clean hit, one that had definitely made Braginsky angry. Like a bull.

Braginsky didn’t let up. He stepped forward and threw a fake to the right, before coming in with a left hook. Alfred stepped into it, took it against his forearm again, and paused when he saw Braginsky’s other hand come up to defend. That pause was exactly what he’d needed, exactly what he’d planned, to throw off Braginsky’s rhythm. As he blocked, Alfred took a step back, and then threw a kick down against Braginsky’s thigh. This time, his crumple was visible, though he did not fall even to his knee. Alfred’s shin had made perfect contact.

_Good. I’m doing well._

_But I can’t get comfortable._

_I have to stay focused._

He jumped out of Braginsky’s punching range.

Braginsky kept coming. This time, he went straight in, with a jab and a cross aiming at Alfred’s nose. Alfred managed to just barely slip the jab, and his block was enough to keep the cross from being clean. But it dizzied him a bit. Enough that when Braginsky threw his left hook, it landed cleanly on Alfred’s jaw.

The world spun for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Alfred pulled himself back to the fight, back to where Braginsky was about to throw an overhand. Instead of blocking it, instead of taking the extra step and the extra time, Alfred went for the offensive move that he’d been waiting for. As Braginsky punched, Alfred lifted his own hand. He was faster. His fist landed against Braginsky’s thick, angled jaw before Braginsky’s could even get close. Braginsky stumbled back, so Alfred threw a kick. Braginsky managed to bring up his arm to block, but Alfred pushed. Pushed. He heard Coach’s voice in his head—you’ve got him right where you want him, keep going. He drove Braginsky back toward the wall of the ring, throwing quick punches. Low, high, low, high, putting Braginsky in the most defensive pose he’d ever been in. He saw blood on Braginsky’s lips, and finally saw something in his eyes—fury. Rage. Hatred.

Just before the bell rang to announce the end of the first round, Braginsky threw an unexpected punch up into Alfred’s stomach. It shocked him enough to lower his guard.

The bell rang.

Braginsky still punched again.

It sent Alfred tumbling to the ground, bracing himself in a daze with his hands. The referee jumped in between them, raised his hands. Everything was spinning, Alfred could taste blood.

But he wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot.

Stumbling, still clumsy, he managed to get back to his feet. He followed Coach’s voice over to where he was waiting, with water and a towel, before the second round. Thirty seconds.

“You’re doing great, Al, you’re doing great,” he said as he squeezed water into his red mouth. “You’re keeping him on his toes. Listen, I think if you can get in a few more clean punches, you can knock him out. But time isn’t on your side. If it keeps going like this...if you go into a third round, he’ll win. That last punch was illegal, but even if it doesn’t count for his score, it hurt you. Stay alert.”

Alfred nodded. His eyes flitted over to where his brother, his friends, his lover were watching. They looked stressed. He chuckled.

“What are you gonna do when you get back out there, champ?”

“Fuck him up.”

“Atta boy. Go get ‘em, champ.”

The bell rang for the second round to begin. Alfred knew that he would have to end it within the next three minutes—otherwise, he would break his promise.

When Alfred fought, he saw Arthur’s face. Smiling, scowling, crying, screaming, laughing. The face he made when he first woke up in the morning, the face he made when he was moaning Alfred’s name in the sheets.

Braginsky did not hesitate. He threw punch after punch. Suddenly, Alfred found himself on the defensive. Blocking, catching, slipping, ducking. One punch after the other, leaving no openings. Alfred knew that Braginsky was powerful, but he’d never imagined that he could throw such powerful, accurate punches, in such quick succession. He was at least thankful that he’d managed to get over his dizziness in the short break between rounds.

_I have to win._

_For Coach._

_After Ludwig, I’m all he’s got._

_For Matthew._

_My little brother, my best friend, my biggest fan._

_For Arthur._

_We’re going to buy a corgi together and travel the world._

Alfred was done messing around. He didn’t like being on defense. He channeled all the strength that he’d managed to build, all the skills and speed and agility and stamina, over the past year. In the split second between Braginsky’s punches, he threw his own punches. Up toward Braginsky’s exposed jaws. None of them clean.

One of Braginsky’s made it through Alfred’s defenses. One was enough.

Alfred fell again. He was still conscious, struggling to stand up. But Braginsky was on top of him, and Alfred knew it was over. There was no way for him to get Braginsky off of him, no way to shield his blows.

_It’s over._

_He’s going to kill me._

Everything became strangely silent. Alfred saw a little corgi. It was trotting around the ring, wiggling its short tail, its tongue lolling out of its smiling mouth. It barked at him.

“Hey, Alfred Fuzzy Jones,” he smiled.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Braginsky was punching him. But he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t really feel anything.

“Alfred!”

Someone was calling his name. It was a familiar voice, a beautiful voice that flowed like water.

“Alfred! Stand up!”

The corgi barked at him.

Arthur was yelling at him.

Why was Arthur yelling at him?

“Fight back, Alfred! Fight back!”

Fighting? Is that what I’m doing?

“Don’t you want to be the champion, Alfred?”

The champion. I do want to be the champion.

“Get up and take it! Please, Alfred!”

The corgi licked his cheek. It smiled at him. Alfred closed his eyes and he laughed and he listened to that voice crying his name.

When he opened his eyes, lying on the ground, he saw a fist flying toward him. He reached up and he grabbed it, stopped it before it hit his bloodied face. Then, with his other fist, he punched Braginsky as hard as he could.

Ivan the Terrible swayed, stumbled, lost enough strength that Alfred managed to move out from under him, fall backwards, get up to his knees and then to his feet. He threw another punch. It hit Ivan the Terrible again, but still he did not fall.

“ _GO ALFRED!”_

Alfred reached his fist back.

_An overhand should do it._

He turned his hips and he swung his arm around, over his shoulder, down.

He heard the crack of Ivan the Terrible’s jaw as he fell.

He was too tired, too bloody, in too much pain to feel much of anything else when the referee announced that Ivan the Terrible was knocked out and lifted Alfred’s arm in the air.

“Alfred ‘The Hero’ Jones is the new UFC champion!”

He smiled to himself.

As the sound of ambulance sirens grew closer, closer, closer, Alfred thought of the little corgi.

* * *

 

It was gloomy outside, but that was normal in London. Alfred was used to it now. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to get his cowlick down. He could hear the TV on in the living room.

“ _AL!_ It’s almost noon!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Just stop with the cowlick. You look weird without it anyway. Let’s go already.”

“But I’m trying to look pretty for you, darling.”

“Bugger off.”

Just then, Arthur’s phone began to ring.

“I’ll get it,” Alfred called. He knew that Arthur wouldn’t want to answer it—all of the calls recently were the same anyway.

“Brilliant. But hurry up—Fuzzy’s getting impatient.”

Alfred ran to grab the phone and brought it to his ear. He tried to imitate Kiku as best he could, standing up straight and puckering his lips.

“You’ve reached the cell phone of Arthur Kirkland, most awesome and most kickass person on the face of the planet. How may I help you?”

“Yes, hello, is Arthur there? I’d like to speak with him.”

The voice was a woman’s, and she spoke with an accent not dissimilar to Arthur’s. Alfred glanced over at Arthur, but Arthur wasn’t even looking at him. He was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, eyes directed to the television but obviously not watching. Their corgi was spread out on his lap, tongue lolling from her mouth, union jack bandana around her neck. Arthur waved his hand lazily, a clear indication that whoever it was, he wasn’t going to talk to them.         

“He’s busy. I’m happy to take a message for you, though,” Alfred replied to the woman.

“Oh, come, I’m sure he can spare a few moments for his mother. Tell him I want to speak with him! You’re his secretary, right? Tell him.”

“Uh, actually, I’m his—”

“Be a dear and call him for me, will you?”

Alfred covered the receiver with his hand and turned back to Arthur.

“It’s...it’s your mom.”

“My mother?” Arthur scoffed. “I’m _especially_ busy for her. She’s probably calling to congratulate me in that bloody fake tone she always has. Ask for some money perhaps. I’ll have Kiku send some over. Well, anyway, I’m not talking to her. Tell her I’m taking a shit or something.”

Holding back his laughter, Alfred returned to Arthur’s mother.

“Sorry, he really can’t talk.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Kirkland paused, and then spoke up again. “Well, let him know that his mother is proud of him. Being nominated for an Oscar is no simple feat, after all! Tell him how proud we are of him.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Thank you...ah, what was your name?”

“Alfred. Alfred Jones.”

“Yes, well, thank you.”

Then she hung up. It wasn’t the first phone call of this type that Alfred had answered for Arthur—since the nominations had been announced, he’d been receiving call after call after call to congratulate him. It felt a little like when, two years ago, Alfred had first taken the UFC championship. Although Alfred had been much more willing to flaunt and boast with the people who were willing to hear it.

“Your mother is a gem,” Alfred called.

“Right.” Arthur snickered, letting his hand rest on top of Alfred Fuzzy’s head. She perked up at the touch.

Alfred paused for a moment, suddenly unable to move, as his gaze fell upon his two favorite companions. Had Arthur always looked that beautiful doing absolutely nothing? Of course he had. Sunglasses on top of his head, limbs graceful, eyebrows always furrowed and lips always puckered for no reason. It didn’t seem fair to Alfred that even now, after they’d been together for almost two and a half years, Arthur still had the power to make him stop in his tracks and get lost in his beauty every time. Arthur glanced over at him, and when he saw him standing there, let out a sigh.

“What are you just standing there for? Get moving!”

“Okay, okay! I just need to put my shoes on.”

“You’re sure you packed everything?”

“Mhmm.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say something else, but never had the chance. Alfred walked across the room, bent down over the couch, and touched his lips to Arthur’s. He could taste the tobacco, the Earl Grey, the roses that had never actually been there.

Five minutes later, they were putting their bags into the trunk of Arthur’s blue MINI hatchback.

“I’ll drive!”

“Please. You’ll end up killing us both.”

“But I’m used to the switched roads now.”

“Liar. I’m driving.”

“Damn it.”

As Alfred squeezed into the passenger seat (which was, incidentally, the driver’s seat where he was from), he reached around Arthur’s back and pinched him. Arthur jumped, laughed, threw a few nonchalant insults, before turning his cheek into Alfred’s kiss. Once Alfred was in the seat, Alfred Fuzzy let out an excited bark, and hopped up into his lap.

“Good girl!”

Arthur got into the driver’s seat, turned the car on, rolled all the windows down, put his sunglasses on, pulled out a pack of gummy bears, and connected his phone to the Bluetooth.

“Ready, love?” he said, turning to face Alfred. Alfred reached up and brushed his cheek, traced his lips, leaned forward. Kissed him again. He could never kiss him too many times.

“Always,” he replied quietly.          

* * *

_ You move like watercolor. You breathe out colors of the sunset, you blink in shades of grass and emerald green. You touch me the way an artist touches brush to canvas, you mark my skin and bleed your paint onto me. Sometimes you’re saturated and bright, sometimes you speak in gray and black hues. Everything about you is beautiful. _

* * *

They played Ben Howard on the road to nowhere, anywhere, somewhere they could do nothing but be together. Alfred Fuzzy put her paws against the window and stuck her head out to feel the wind. Arthur drove with one hand, let Alfred grasp the other.

“Truth or dare,” Alfred said.

“Dare.”

“Hmm.”

He brought Arthur’s hand up to his lips.

* * *

_Look at your lips—they dance and they speak acrylics. Your eyes are each a different universe that I’m floating between. I’m trapped in that little gap between your teeth. I put my palms against your chest, like this, and the touch overwhelms me so much that I worry for a moment that I’ve lost my heartbeat. That mine is yours, yours is mine, I don’t know. When you yell at me I hear music. When I carry you on my back I feel like a missing piece has been fitted to me._

* * *

“Tell me that you love me,” Alfred said.

“Really? _That’s_ your dare?” Arthur snorted. “You’re disappointing, Jones.”

“Come on, just do it! You picked dare, so now you have to do it.”

_Lovely as you are, lovely as you are._

“Fine,” Arthur sighed. He took his eyes off the road for that single moment and looked into Alfred’s eyes. “I love you. Happy?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Of course I fucking mean it, you—”

“Arthuuuur!”

“I love you, Alfred, more than I can ever say, more than you’ll ever know, more than I can even comprehend sometimes.”

_Lovely as you are, lovely as you are._

“Better?”

“I love you, too.”

Then they drove forever through the English countryside.  


End file.
